


Riding The Line

by xbedhead



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I re-watched 3x03 last night and was inspired by Raylan's anecdote about the coal strike and how they came after his uncle.  This is what came of it.  I swear, someone could write a book with all the family stories that man tells on his way to a point.  This is unbeta'd, so forgive any errors (and point them out to me, please - gently *G*). My second fic in the fandom! They're slow goin', but they're coming still.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Riding The Line

**Author's Note:**

> I re-watched 3x03 last night and was inspired by Raylan's anecdote about the coal strike and how they came after his uncle. This is what came of it. I swear, someone could write a book with all the family stories that man tells on his way to a point. This is unbeta'd, so forgive any errors (and point them out to me, please - gently *G*). My second fic in the fandom! They're slow goin', but they're coming still.

The wrapper is hard to pull off, stuck to the butterscotch, melted with the heat and time spent in Aunt Helen’s purse. The house smells like cigarette smoke and he wants to play with the car puzzle on the coffee table, but he knows this is a ‘serious talk.’

“How many of them were there?”

“Four. Duke men.”

Raylan’s feet swing, legs not long enough to touch the ground of the high-backed chair at Aunt Helen’s house. He leans over the arm of the chair tugs at her sleeve. “Momma, I’m hungry.”

“I know, baby,” she says as she pats his hand and looks up at her sister.

Helen bends down, gives Raylan a smile as she crooks her finger at him. “C’mere, little man – I got somethin’ in here that’ll fix you _right_ up.”

He scrambles down from the chair and runs into the kitchen, eager to take a seat at Aunt Helen’s round table with the yellow, metal chairs. He sits on one leg and the sole of his shoe creaks across the fake leather covering the cushion.

“Hadn’t heard nothin’ from him since last week. Where is he?” she asks as she opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plastic bowl with a lid on top. There’s fried chicken inside.

“In the mountains, where do you think?” Frances leans against the doorway and takes a drag from her cigarette, taps it on the edge of the ashtray she’s carried with her. “One place those thugs won’t go lookin’ for a man – they know they can’t beat him in his own holler.”

Helen holds out a drumstick for Raylan and offers the bowl to Frances. She shakes her head and leaves the cigarette in her mouth as she crosses her arms in front of her.

Helen doesn’t miss the wince.

“That from them or _him_.”

“Them,” she answers readily, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t bring my shotgun with me – they woulda tuned me better.”

“Those bastards,” Helen mutters as she fills a glass at the tap. She holds it up to the window – the water’s cloudy, but not as bad as it had been the day before. She takes a drink and spits it out.

“They popped me real good, but didn’t seem intent on causin’ much harm. They wanted Riley is all.”

He tugs at the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to slide his bony shoulder up through the hole, revealing a greenish-purple bruise the size of a golf ball. “They got me, too,” he announces proudly.

“Well, look-ee there,” Helen admires, running her fingers gently over the tender skin. “Got your first bumps from the picket line - can’t call you ‘little man’ anymore, now can I?”

Raylan is satisfied with the attention, his war wounds admired, and goes back to the rest of his chicken leg. Aunt Helen turns her back to him and Raylan can’t see the tight look she gives her younger sister.

“Do I even need to ask where Arlo was?”

“If you did, I couldn’t tell you. He lit out about ten days ago, said he was crossin’ over, gonna bring somethin’ back – I don’t know. You know he never tells me a blessed thing.”

She catches the clock on the wall and stubs out her cigarette. “Damnit – I gotta get him registered for school. Was supposed to go on Friday, got tangled up at the line.”

" _School_? He's barely four years old."

"He's nearly five."

"It's almost Thanksgiving - ain't that a little early?"

"They'll take him in this sorta pre-school program they got goin' now come January. S'posed to help him get ready for kindergarten."

“Well...you want me to watch him?” Helen asks, tipping her head toward Raylan.

He drops what’s left of the chicken leg on the table and slides off the seat. “I’m goin’ with Momma,” he proclaims, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. “I’m gonna be in Head Start."

Helen smiles and looks impressed. "You _are_?"

He nods emphatically. "I'm gonna learn to _read_.”

"You can tell me some good stories, then."

They pass through the living room and gather up their things – Raylan, his die-cast dump truck and his mother, her purse. Aunt Helen hugs her sister and tucks another butterscotch in his back pocket.

They’re on the front porch when he hears her call out, “You look after you momma now, Raylan. You hear me?”

“Don’t you tell him that,” Frances says quickly, a heat in her voice that causes Raylan to take notice.

In the Fairlane on the drive down the mountain his mother cracks the window and lights another cigarette. The wind is cold and he burrows into his seat, seeking warmth in his denim and wool jacket.

“Raylan,” she says quietly, blowing smoke into the breeze.

He turns and looks at her, the shoulder strap pressing into his neck. He slips out from under it and shifts in his seat.

“Don’t you worry about lookin’ after me none, okay?”

He doesn’t respond and, after a moment, she asks, “Do you hear me, Raylan?”

He gives her a half-nod and turns back in his seat. He hears her.

\---


End file.
